


Boardwalkers

by Oceanbourne



Category: League of Legends
Genre: 1920s AU, F/F, other characters to be added later, with prohibition and stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:04:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9827882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oceanbourne/pseuds/Oceanbourne
Summary: Word on the streets is that less than half of the police force is loyal to the Volstead Act. But as long as the law of the land stands, true enforcers are here to protect it.





	

The drawer, nestled between a couple of paintings of the Sierra Nevada, looked so similar to the rest of the wall that Caitlyn nearly missed it. She turns around, checking to see for anyone else in the room observing her. Two men with bowler hats holding wooden sticks take turns as they stand around a billiards table, and three women closer to her are too engrossed in their own conversation to glance over at her.

Just business as usual, Caitlyn tells herself, but even the dim lamplight that shines upon the back of her neck feels like the all-consuming radiance that the Christians preach about the Last Judgment.

Tilting the little indent jutting from the wall, she pulls out the wooden drawer, finding a small notepad and pen. Caitlyn digs into the pockets of her jacket and unearths a leather wallet, withdrawing a five-dollar bill that she places into the drawer. With the pen she scribbles an order in neat cursive slant.

A straight rum and coke, with lime.

The instructions that her superior had given her indicated that she should slide the drawer back and approach the bar counter; within a minute her beverage would appear. The bartenders usually had some hand in maintaining and distributing the alcohol locked in secret cellars somewhere in the labyrinth of the New York underground, and Caitlyn’s best bet to investigating the source would come from what she could glean from the bartender.

She tightens the cap around her head and walks over to the counter, turning her head away from the fumes coming from an older gentleman’s cigar. Keep a low profile, she is reminded. Act relaxed and speak softly. Don’t attract attention to yourself. Caitlyn frowns when she notices the navy curtain drawn along the exit that leads into the backroom of the bar. It parts for only a second, as a long-sleeved arm and gloved hand bring out the mixture in a wine glass. Even with quick eyes that could catch a criminal in crowded Charlotte streets, Caitlyn can’t make out anything about the bartender’s features besides dark hair and the gilded lining of a mask she might see at Mardi Gras down in a New Orleans town square. The shadowy profile and uniformed arm disappear as quickly as they came out, and Caitlyn is left with nothing more than a full glass of rum and no inkling of how the speakeasy operates. Besides the fact that they’ve prepared for any source of police interference.

Caitlyn crinkles her nose. She’ll have to look elsewhere for a lead on who watches over the establishment on G Street. But for now, why should she waste a perfectly good drink?

Taking the glass to a secluded corner of the room, at a table populated only by an ashtray and a napkin holder, she takes a sip of the rum. There’s a slight sugary taste to the liquid, and the tinge of lime gives enough flavor to distract her from the bitterness that meets her tongue after she swallows. The benefactors of this place put enough effort to satisfy its customers past the base desire for forbidden fruit squeezed into a wine glass.

She scans the sparse crowd, having placed herself in a location close enough to distinguish potentially interesting conversations, but far enough not to stand out like a white cat in a dark alley. This wasn’t a place, like that abandoned warehouse over on Birmingham Avenue, that she and her partner could break up on their own. And her superior must have seen something doubly suspicious about this particular venue, that she should enter the building in civilian clothes and pretend to sink into the deviant culture, complete with the secret password at the door.

“You don’t look like you’re from around here, sweetheart,” a voice from behind her whispers in her ear, and it takes all of Caitlyn’s composure not to whirl around and glare at people with, as Pearson described it, the venomous look of a cobra. There’s nothing on me that indicates I’m with the bureau, Caitlyn reassures herself. She turns around, coming face to face with a vivacious blonde, an intense blue in her eyes that matches the energy of the sea before a coming storm.

She didn’t graduate suma cum laude from her class at Chapel Hill for a peculiar stranger to unnerve her. “That’s because I’m not.” Caitlyn reclines an arm against her table, appraisal hiding under her assumed nonchalance. “I’ve come from quite a ways away.”

The woman perks an eyebrow. “Oh? And where would that be?”

“Brooklyn,” Caitlyn says with her best smirk. She’s not lying, but she knows better than to take herself seriously undercover.

“Oh, aren’t you a piece of work,” the woman says, scanning her over. Caitlyn’s fingers tighten by the slightest margin. “Miss…?”

“Caldwell. Kate Caldwell.”

“Name’s Sarah.” She extends a hand, which Caitlyn takes lightly, letting Sarah dictate the firmness of their handshake. The omitted last name doesn’t go unnoticed.

“So, are you a friend of Fenton’s?”

Caitlyn races through her mind for the details of the story she had prepared herself to tell, should any patrons become dubious of her appearance. “No, not him. I was referred by Thomas, the columnist who works up at Sixth Street.”

Sarah nods, moreso to herself than her company, Caitlyn decides. “Quiet guy.”

“I should think people like him have to save up a certain amount of words each day, else they’d run out of ideas.”

A quiet giggle, the kind someone gives having been told a clever joke they hadn’t heard for years. “I’m always surprised how many sentences the men and women that write articles can pump out in a day. Where I come from, talk and oratory are cheap; actions are how a woman makes her daily bread.”

Perhaps we’re getting somewhere. “And where are you from, Sarah?”

A glint shines in her eye. “Oh, you know, here and there. Haven’t stayed in one place for more than a couple of months, though I do like to come back to Staten Island from time to time.”

“So you’re a wanderer.”

Sarah looks almost horrified. “Hardly!” She leans in, and Caitlyn can make out the perfume wafting from her cheeks. “I ride with the seas, wherever fortune takes me.”

As far as Caitlyn knew, there didn’t exist any female ship captains, but there were a lot of female crew members. She nods. “I took a steamer up from Richmond a few months ago, myself.”

“Virginia, huh?” Sarah asks. “I do like the South in spring - beautiful cherry blossoms, warm summer breeze.”

It was a nice change of pace, Caitlyn reflects. Definitely beats dreary Liverpool. Caitlyn clears her throat. “So, Sarah, do you… come here often?”

She realizes she’s talked herself into a trap by the way Sarah stares her down, like a fisherman who realizes they’ve secured in the biggest catch of the day.

“Are you asking for yourself, or a friend?” She dangles the last word in front of Caitlyn, but she’s clever enough to ignore the bait the second time around.

For the Bureau of Investigation, Caitlyn wants to deadpan again, but she plays it cool. If this woman shows interest in her, perhaps she’ll find a way into the community with her. “If my friend was interested, he’d come in person. But he’s not here - I am.”

Sarah sidles closer. “Y’know, I don’t always frequent the Clementine House, but for you, I might make a slight exception.”

“You’d do that for me?”

When she leans forward, Caitlyn doesn’t know what to think, but Sarah leans past her to reach for her rum. “Lime,” she comments, smacking her lips. “You’ve got good taste.”

Caitlyn blinks. “You just — ”

Sarah gets to her feet, walking past Caitlyn for the door. “Thanks for the drink, sweetheart. Now I’d love to stay and chat, but a girl’s got business to do.” 

This got Caitlyn’s interest, but she didn’t dare pry so soon. “What? You’re just going to leave like that?”

“I’ll make sure to repay the favor, soon.” With a wink and a little wave of her fingers, she walks into the shadow where the light of the lamp doesn’t reach and disappears.

Caitlyn immediately reaches for her purse, anticipating some kind of attempt at swindling, but is surprised to see a little note deposited into the pocket, with small, precise handwriting on it.

Tuesday, 6 pm.


End file.
